The Night Charter (16 page)

M
ATT STOPPED AT
a food stand. It was a small, cheap place built into the side of a stucco structure painted brilliant pink. The shaded dining area consisted entirely of old wooden picnic tables, most of which were crowded with Cubans, light and dark, feasting on sandwiches and other things.

He ordered a
frita
and sat down on the end of a picnic table's bench to wait. It was only a few minutes, and then he had the sandwich in his hands. The Coke they gave him was the size of a bucket.

The
frita,
a Cuban hamburger with a patty of beef and chorizo sausage, was smothered with onion, tomato, lettuce, and shoestring potato sticks. Matt attacked it, not realizing until now how hungry he'd allowed himself to become, and took great, long swallows of the Coke between bites.

The Cubans spoke to each other solely in Spanish. This irked him. He understood little of the language and never cared to learn more. English was the language of the land. English was what people were meant to speak. Matt would take the Cuban food, but he did not have much use for anything else brought over from the island.

Once he was done he tossed away the
frita'
s paper wrapper and the empty Coke cup and headed back toward the Charger. He was nearly there when he saw the police unit emerge from beyond a corner two blocks farther down, shielded until the last second by the uprights of a small gas station.

Matt stopped in his tracks and reversed himself, heading back toward the food stand. He stepped into the shade and watched as the car moved up the street toward the Charger, then suddenly slowed as the driver noticed it was there.

The police unit came to a complete stop beside the Charger, and the officer got out. The man circled the car completely. Matt saw him make a note of the license plate number before getting back behind the wheel. A long couple of minutes passed as the officer consulted his computer, after which the unit pulled to the curb forward of the Charger and parked.

The cop was not going to leave. Matt left the food stand going the other direction, taking the first available turn. He was not certain of the neighborhood or the lay of the streets, but it did not matter so long as he put enough distance between himself and the cop by the curb.

His Charger was gone. That much he understood. The idea of it pained him, but it had been an inevitable thing. Even with the new plates, it was too striking a vehicle to escape notice. By now, police up and down the coast would have its description, along with Matt's. Had he been behind the wheel at the wrong moment, he would be in custody now.

A chime followed a vibration in his pocket. Matt brought out his phone and answered. “Sandro, where are you?” he asked.

“Fuck you, Matt,” Soto said.

“What's up, bro? What did I do?”

“You left me,
bro!
You let me walk right into that bitch, and you let her break my hand, and then you
left!
You drove off and left me!”

“Calm down,” Matt said. “Okay? There were reasons.”

“Like what?”

“She was shooting at me, bro. I couldn't stick around. Besides, I knew she wouldn't kill you.”

Soto did not sound convinced. “If she tried to kill you, then why wouldn't she try to kill me? You and me was together on this. She's got to know something. And she grabbed me around the throat and choked me out! I barely got out of there, man.”

“If she choked you out, then she could have killed you,” Matt said. “She didn't. That means I'm right. She's got a beef with me, but you're safe. And next time, she won't get the drop on us. We know she's coming.”

“I'm so pissed with you right now,” Soto said.

“I understand, bro. I totally get it. But we have to get past that. It's just you and me now, and there's a lot of money riding on what we do. You want to pull down some of that cash, right? So calm down a little bit.”

He was now four blocks away from where he'd left the Charger. There was a little hardware store up the street from where he walked. Matt crossed the street to get to it. He could hear Soto breathing hard on the other end.

“Where are you?” Matt asked again.

“I'm downtown at the cop shop.”

Matt stopped. “You're in with the cops?”

“No, man, I'm outside now. They put a weapons charge on me, but I got released on my own recognizance. Some detective tried to get me to talk about you and the Cubans, but I didn't tell them anything.”

“They let you out because they want to see what you do,” Matt said.

“What are you talking about?”

“They know you're in it with me. They want to nail both of us for what went down in Liberty City. You probably have a tail right now.”

“I don't have no tail.”

“You got cash?”

“Yeah.”

“Take a cab. Then take a bus. Then take another cab. Watch your back, and see if anyone's following you. If they aren't, then you need to get back to the spot. Chapado's been by himself too long.”

“I need a new gun. They took mine.”

“I'll get you a new gun just as soon as I get a ride.”

He was at the hardware store and went inside. It was sleepy and smelled of dust. It took him half a minute to find the tools he needed: a screwdriver and a pair of needle-nose pliers. An old man at the counter rang him out.

Soto was walking fast. His breath was not angry now, but rapid and shallow. Matt wanted to reach through the phone and tell him to chill out before he clued in every cop in the county. “I see a cab,” Soto said.

“Take it.”

“Where do I go?”

“Anywhere. It doesn't matter.”

Money changed hands. The old man put the screwdriver and the pliers in a bag. Matt ignored his thank-you and went outside. His gaze traveled along the street he was on, picking out different cars parked under the unforgiving sun. He heard Soto tell the taxi driver where to go.

“Here's what you do,” Matt said. “When we get off the phone, I want you to pitch yours out the window.”

“What? This thing cost six hundred bucks!”

“These things can be tracked. I'm getting rid of mine, too. At the first 7-Eleven you see, go in and pick up a prepaid phone. Once you're sure you're not being followed, head to the spot, and I'll meet you there. We'll trade numbers.”

“My phone—”

“Screw your phone! Get rid of it, okay? Now I got to go. Remember what I said: take a bus to anywhere, get off, find another cab.
Watch all the time
.”

“All right, man. But we're not finished talkin' about what you did.”

“Later. Now go.”

He hung up and dropped his phone on the ground. He stomped on it in the middle of the street, driving his heel into the plastic body until it was shattered under his sole. A hundred yards away was a green Kia Soul. When Matt got to it, he looked both ways and saw no one. He used his elbow to smash the driver's-side window.

Inside the car, he used the screwdriver to strip the plastic off the steering column. The needle-nose pliers were like a key in a lock. The car started. Even though the window was out, he ran the air conditioner.

Matt drove.

S
HE STRAPPED HER
bag to the back of the Harley's pillion seat and set off on a lazy circle back toward the motel where Lauren still waited. Camaro needed time to think, and it was easier to do that when the wind was in her face and in her hair and she had the temporary illusion of freedom.

With her bike and her money she could head north or west and never look back. It would mean losing everything, and not for the first time in her life, but it would also mean she was shut of the whole situation. She could call the detective from the road and tell him where to find Lauren. Eventually, the girl would make it to her uncle. Maybe it would take a while, but they wouldn't keep her from family. Or maybe they would. Camaro did not know how these things worked.

There were countless miles of road between Miami and the state line. Enough that getting lost in them would not be so difficult a thing. The detective had promised to set the state police on her, but even they could not be everywhere at once. If she kept off the interstate highways and took obscure roads, she might travel more slowly, but she would be practically invisible.

Even as she thought all of these things, she knew she would not go. Thirty thousand dollars was money, but it was not money enough to make a new life. And the life she'd created for herself here would be lost irretrievably. She would never pilot the
Annabel
again.

The only true option was to get ahead of the situation somehow and make the chaos of Parker's death mean something. Keeping her promise was one thing, but it would not shield her from a man like the detective. It would not do away with the threat of Matt Clifford. All he had to do was speak and everything was shattered. Maybe he wouldn't, but maybe he would. The latter wasn't worth the risk, and she knew how the first could be guaranteed.

She glanced at her watch to see the time. Already she had been gone longer than she intended. Now she angled back toward Coral Terrace, blowing through a yellow light at the last moment and accelerating too quickly up a long straightaway. The possibility of a cop lighting her up occurred to her, but she was far away from that. What she saw in her mind were open waters and bright sun and escape at the end of a line.

T
HEY CAME TOGETHER
after lunch in Hugo Echave's study. Carlos and Pablo and Álvaro were there, and Álvaro had brought his son, Ulises. Ulises was good and young and full of fire. Echave had considered him for the team meant to kill Matt Clifford but had decided at the last moment to hold him back. Given the way things had gone, he was glad of that choice.

This was the only thing that brought Echave relief. The rest was intolerable, and his mind had been afire with thoughts of it all day. Only now, with these men gathered around him, could he give voice to anger, but even then he tempered his words with control. He could not afford to be wild. “How could this happen?” he asked quietly.

“It's terrible,” Carlos said.

“Yes. It is terrible. It is unspeakable. But
how
did it happen? Pablo, explain it to me.”

Marquez cleared his throat. He was visibly uncomfortable in his skin. His gaze skipped from man to man in the intimate confines of the study, as if he expected one to lunge at him, catch him by the front of his shirt, and shake him until the answers spilled out onto the carpeting. “It's unclear. Because there were no survivors, we have no report from our own men. The only things I've been able to find out have been what the police have made available to the public. I called them posing as a journalist. They told me very little.”

“What did they say?” Echave asked.

He cleared his throat again. “They said that it appeared two groups of men had opened fire on each other in a drug deal gone bad and that seven were left dead. They were willing to confirm that five of the men were Latino, but they were withholding names until they could notify the families.”

“We know their names,” Carlos said. “And we know exactly why they were there. Now you see why I was not in favor of this from the beginning. Drug deal! This is what we've been reduced to? Confused for Colombians or some other Latino trash. It's like the eighties all over again.”

“Did they give any indication of how they died?” Echave asked.

“By gunshot. That was all I was told.”

“He was ready for you,” Carlos said. “Clifford was ready for this. He knew that we would try some sort of double cross, and he had men lying in wait for ours to show their faces.”

“He lost two,” Ulises Sotelo spoke up. “We drew blood.”

“With respect, Álvaro,” Carlos said to Sotelo, “your son wasn't even here at the planning of this thing. Why is he here at all?”

“Because he wants to be of help,” Sotelo said sharply. “At a time like this, we need everyone we can muster. We don't have the numbers we used to, and many of us are too old for such things. If we are to succeed in our cause, we need young men like Ulises and Pablo to step forward and take responsibility. And right now. Not later.
Now
.”

Echave waved them all silent. “No one is more upset about this than I am. When I heard the news, I could barely see, I was so angry. Matt Clifford does not know what kind of fire he has lit in me. Or in all of us. He'll regret it.”

“You can't seriously suggest going after him again,” Carlos said. “Hasn't there been enough bloodshed? The whole purpose of this was to bring Sergio Chapado somewhere he could be safe and contribute to the cause. Raising another hit squad won't get us anywhere closer to that goal.”

“We must fight,” Ulises said.

“Álvaro, please tell your son to shut his mouth.”

“No,” Sotelo said. “I will not. He has a right to speak.”

“Enough!”
Echave said. “I won't have us bickering amongst ourselves! This is exactly what Clifford wants: for us to be in disarray and making mistakes. He can't be made to pay for what he's done to us unless we are of one mind. Rescuing Chapado from him is paramount, yes, but this does not end even if he falls into our hands tomorrow.”

Carlos snorted. “How do you suggest we proceed?”

“We must pay,” Marquez said.

“Never!” Ulises exclaimed.

“Now
I
will tell you to be silent,” Echave said. “Pablo is right. We must pay. Or at least we must make it seem that we will pay. It is the only way to draw Clifford close to us. In the meanwhile, we use every resource at our disposal to locate him.”

“What resources?” Carlos asked. “We lost five of our best men.”

“The police,” Echave said. “Some are sympathetic to our cause. We've received donations from a few of them. Let's find out if any of them are on this case or if they have access to the case's files. Who is the lead detective?”

“Ignacio Montellano.”

“Is he Cuban?”

“I don't know. Perhaps.”

“Find out. He may be partial to us and might be persuaded to give up information we can use to find Clifford.”

“That's doubtful,” Carlos said.

“You have other suggestions?” Echave demanded.

Carlos looked away. “No.”

“The important thing is that we have the intelligence we need. There is much we can do with the right information. Álvaro, your son worked in the prosecutor's office, did he not?”

“Yes,” Ulises said. “Before I went into private practice. I have friends in the district attorney's office still. Plus, there are a number of policemen with whom I remain friendly.”

Echave turned his gaze on all of them in turn. “My friends, this began as a mission to save a comrade, but now it's something else. We've been attacked. People have died. It is an affront to everything we have striven for all of these years. Let us reach out now and close our fist around Matt Clifford. Let us crush the life out of him.”